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A WORLD OF WINDOWS 
CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 



A WORLD 
OF WINDOWS 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 



CHARLES HANSON TOWNE 

AUTHOR OF "MANHATTAN," "YOUTH," "BEYOND THE STARS,' 
"the quiet SINGER," "TODAY AND TOMORROW," ETC. 



NEW YORK 
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



^-0-^''%'^ 

^,^> 



COPYRIGHT, 1919, 
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OP AMERICA 



©CI.A530810 

StP 12 1919 



TO MY FRIEND 
OWEN JOHNSON 



For the privilege of reprinting the poems included in 
this volume, the author thanks the editors of the fol- 
lowing magazines: Harper s^ The Century, The Satur- 
day Evening Post, The American, The Outlook, The 
Cosmopolitan, Everybody's, The Pictorial Review, The 
Delineator, The Designer, Good Housekeeping, Mun- 
sey*s, Ainslee's, Life, The Forum, The Chronicle, The 
Touchstone, The Smart Set, and the New York Tribune. 



[vii] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

a world of windows ........ i3 

the time-clock 16 

the darkness 19 

for the funeral of an aviator 20 

a prayer for the gift of song 21 

a voice at morning 22 

light love 23 

the little home paper 24 

the loiterer 26 

love's surety 27 

the shell 28 

in an italian garden 29 

the hosts of april 30 

to one in heaven 32 

when i am dust 34 

of one self-slain 35 

the old loveliness 36 

in summer 37 

the best road of all 38 

the shadow 4o 

a love song 4i 

ONE KISS 42 

OLD HOUSES 43 

, HOW WILL IT SEEM? 44 

ON SOME RECENT ALLIED VICTORIES .... 45 

ITALIA IN EXCELSIS 46 

[ix] 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

TO A STRICKEN WORLD 47 

A PRAYER FOR THE OLD COURAGE 48 

t RUINS 49 

, AFTERWARDS 5 1 

TO WALTER HAMPDEN AS "hamlet" 53 

* THEODORE ROOSEVELT 54 

CITY FLASHES 

THE BUS CONDUCTOR 57 

THE BLIND 59 

TELEPHONES 60 

THE PEOPLE IN THE PARK 6l 

SUNDAY EVENING 62 

ON SEEING A NUN IN A TAXICAB 64 

SUNDAY IN AN OFFICE BUILDING 65 

AROUND THE CORNER 66 

THE USHER 67 

THE MESSENGER BOY 70 

IN A DEPARTMENT STORE Jl 

WAR-TIME PORTRAITS 

STEPHEN 77 

THE YOUNG AMBULANCE-DRIVER 81 

• JACK LE MAR . 84 

JIM SMITH 85 

YOUNG RUPERT 87 

A CERTAIN ENGLISH ACTOR 89 

WILLIE LAMB 9O 



M 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 

Behind my house are windows, 
Each lit with yellow flame, 

And each one is a little world 
Set in a little frame. 

A shop-girl, through her mirror, 
Looks at her ashen face. 

Below her, in a peignoir 
Of shabby, dirty lace, 

A woman, stout and lazy, 

Sits playing solitaire; 
Dishevelled is her ill-lit room. 

And tumbled is her hair. 

There is one little window 

Set high above the rest; 
I see the edge of an iron bed. 

And a young girl thinly dressed. 

[13] 



A WORLD QF WINDOWS 



Her face is full of sorrow — 
One seldom sees her laugh; 

Each night she bends above an old 
And faded photograph. 

She takes it from the bureau 
In that small, stuffy place; 

One evening, I could almost see 
The tears upon her face, 

When the vi^ild gas-jet flickered 

Above her heavy hair. 
That whole long night I saw her, 

An image of despair, 

Beside her tiny window 
Gazing at the white moon. 

I wondered what her life must be — 
Had Love gone by so soon? 

A week dragged on; her shutters 
Were drawn, as if to hide 

The little drama of her world; 
And then — one night — she died. 

She killed herself. I read the truth, 
Hidden among the news — 

A little item, stale enough: 
How many love — and lose I 

[14] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



Three days — and then another girl 
Took up her story there. 

Two flights below, a woman still 
Sat playing solitaire, 

In the same shabby peignoir 

Of yellow, dirty lace, 
And the poor shop-girl, In her glass, 

Looked at her pallid face. 

Behind my house are windows, 
Each lit with yellow flame; 

Each Is a world for some one 
Who plays the old, old game. 

And when one world is emptied, 
Through terror or disgrace. 

How soon another brave one comes 
To fill the vacant place ! 



[15] 






THE TIME-CLOCK 



"Tick-tock! Tick-tockl'* 
Sings the great time-clock. 
And the pale men hurry, 
And flurry and scurry 
To punch their time 
Ere the hour shall chime. 
"Tick-tock! Tick-tock!'* 
Sings the stern time-clock. 

''It — is — time — you — were — come 1'* 
Says the pendulum. 
'Tick-tock! Tick-tock!" 
Moans the big time-clock. 
They must leave the heaven 
Of their beds. ... It is seven, 
And the sharp whistles blow 
In the city below. 
They can never delay — 
If they're late, they must pay. 
*'God help them!" I say. 
But the great time-clock 
Only says, 'Tick-tockl" 
[i6] 



THE TIME-CLOCK 



They are chained, they are slaves 

From their birth to their graves I 

And the clock 

Seems to mock 

With its awful "tick-tock!'* 

There it stands at the door 

Like a brute, as they pour 

Through the dark narrow way 

Where they toil night and day. 

They are goaded along 

By the terrible song 

Of whistle and gong, 

And the endless 'Tick-tock!'* 

Of the great time-clock. 



"Tick-tock! Tick-tock!" 
Runs the voice of the clock. 



II 



Some day it will cease ! 
They will all be at peace, 
And dream a new dream 
Far from shuttle and steam. 
And whistles may blow. 
And whistles may scream — 
They will smile — even so, 
And dream their new dream. 

[17] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



But the clock will tick on 
When their bodies are gone; 
And others will hurry, 
And scurry and worry, 
While "Tick-tock! Tick-tock!'* 
Whispers the clock. 

*Tick-tock! Tick-tock! 

Tick-tockl Tick-tock!" 

Forever runs on the song of the clock ! 



Ti8] 



THE DARKNESS 

The darkness has been very kind to me; 

She has shut out the white flame of the world, 
Hidden the sun of sorrow when it hurled 

Its beam on me, and I was lost in light! 

She brought the velvet healing of the night 
When I was frantic with the staring day, 
Till round about me her great spirit lay, 
A waveless ocean, drowning my dismay. 

The darkness has been very kind to me; 

Like a still prayer thought by a lonely nun 
Her quiet is; the day's griefs, one by one, 
Drift to the shore of long-forgotten things, 
And hushed are the loud earth's old cchoings. 
Deep in her bosom, deep, oh, very deep, 
I hide my head when her first shadows creep. 
And sink at last within the pool of Sleep. 



[19] 



FOR THE FUNERAL OF AN AVIATOR 

Let not the earth confine him 
Who loved the air and sky; 

To no thin grave consign him, 
Now he has come to die; 

But let his tomb forever be 

High as the heavens, broad as the sea. 

From this exultant, splendid. 

Great hill, now hurl his dust, 
Until his ashes, blended 

With the four winds august. 
Become a part of them at last. 
And sail forever on the blast! 



[20] 



A PRAYER FOR THE GIFT OF SONG 

If I could leave one song behind 
To tell of all the joy I knew, 

To show the world that Life Is kind, 
Because It held the moon — and You; 

Then gladly would I go from these 
Enchanted days to Death's dark night. 

Dear God, who filled my years with peace, 
Help me to sing, and sing aright. 



[21] 



A VOICE AT MORNING 

Beyond the great frontiers of dawn 

I heard the singing of a bird. 

O fluted eloquence ! O word 
That from the harps of heaven was drawn! — 

What rapture to the gates of light 

You brought when the last stars grew pale. 
Were you a lonely nightingale, 

Blown down the windy wastes of white? 

Or were you some ecstatic dream 
A child had dreamed and cast aside? 
You floated on the ether's tide, 

As bubbles float upon a stream. 

You reached my heart at last. You bore 
A message from the distant spheres; 
You were a silver sound, like tears 

Shed by the saints, or sad Lenore. 

You were the gospel of the day, 
The frozen wonder of the dawn. 
O lovely bird, sing on, sing on! . . . 

Alas! all beauty fades away. 

[22] 



LIGHT LOVE 

The love that is not quite love — 

Ah! let us be kind to it! 
For it bears a touch of the dream above, 

The passion exquisite. 

The love that is not quite love, 

But only a fleeting thing, 
Like the wraith of rain in an Autumn lane, 

Or the thought of an unborn Spring. 

The love that is not quite love, 

The careless, happy glance; 
But deep in its heart it holds a part 

Of glamour and high romance. 

A flash from the fire divine, 
A glimpse of the page unwrit; 

The youthful love that is not quite love — 
Ah! let us be kind to it! 



t23] 



THE LITTLE HOME PAPER 

The little home paper comes to me, 

As badly printed as It can be ; 

It's ungrammatlcal, cheap, absurd — 

Yet how I love each Intimate word ! 

For here am I In the teeming town, 

Where the sad, mad people rush up and down. 

And It's good to get back to the old lost place. 

And gossip and smile for a little space. 

The weather is hot; the corn crop's good; 
They've had a picnic In Sheldon's Wood. 
And Aunt Maria was sick last week; 
Ike Morrison's got a swollen cheek, 
And the Squire was hurt in a runaway — 
More shocked than bruised, I'm glad they say. 
Bert Wills — I used to play ball with him — 
Is working a farm with his Uncle Jim. 

The Red Cross ladles gave a tea, 

And raised quite a bit. Old Sol MacPhee 

Has sold his house on Lincoln Road — 

He couldn't carry so big a load. 

The Methodist minister's had a call 

From a wealthy parish near St. Paul. 

And old Herb Sweet Is married at last — 

He was forty-two. How the years rush past! 

[24] 



THE LITTLE HOME PAPER 



But here's an Item that makes me see 
What a puzzling riddle life can be. 
"Ed Stokes," It reads, "was killed In France 
When the Allies made their last advance." 
Ed Stokes ! That boy with the laughing eyes 
As blue as the early-Summer skies! 
He wouldn't have killed a fly — and yet, 
Without a murmur, without a regret 

He left the peace of our little place, 

And went away with a light in his face ; 

For out In the world was a job to do. 

And he wouldn't come home till he'd seen it 

through! . . . 
Four thousand miles from our tiny town 
And its hardware store, this boy went down. 
Such a quiet lad, such a simple chap — 
But he's put East Dunkirk on the map ! 



[25] 



THE LOITERER 

I HUNGER for the Spring, 
For April's green delight; 

O long, long loitering 

Of Winter's piercing night! 

Hark ! in the trees one bird, 
And in the grass one star ! 

One lovely, silver word. 
Though tremulous and far. 

But in that flower the soul 
Of hidden April wakes; 

And in that sound the whole 
Mad heart of Music breaks. 



[26] 



LOVE'S SURETY 

How dare we whisper, Love, we will be true 
Till the last stars and the last tides are gone? 

Do not the high gods, hearing me and you, 
Smile, and pass on? 

Lovers have told their love — and broken great 
vows; 
Lovers have promised — and the years have 
found 
Two faithless ones, grief written on their brows, 
In- separate ground. 

Yet we dare whisper the old promises, 

Look in each others' eyes, and Love's wine 
quaff; 

In some far place, bordered with laurel trees, 
Do the gods laugh? 



[27] 



THE SHELL 

The city is a monstrous shell 

Forever at my ear; 
Deep voluntary, clanging bell 

And thundering grief I hear. 

Can all the sounds within it be 

Far echoes of the past? 
Then from what unremembered sea 

Was this great shell upcast? 

Is some old sorrow singing yet, 
Some pain of Greece or Rome? 

Some theme that Time may not forget, 
As shells still sing of home? 

O lonely City! Who can tell 
What anguish you have known, 

When on this coast, a shattered shell. 
Your tragic tale is blown? 

And we who whisper In your heart, 
And weep our scalding tears, 

May be but echoes from the start 
Of the world's sounding years ! 

[28] 



IN AN ITALIAN GARDEN 

Hark ! through the velvet dark I heard 
Cascades of sound, like living light: 

One tremulous, ecstatic bird — 
The Galli-Curci of the night! 



[29] 



THE HOSTS OF APRIL 

Behold young April's banners 
Upon the boughs of Spring! 

In every glade and marshland 
Green flags are shimmering. 

The great blue armies of the Lord 
Thunder, and stir, and sing! 

In yellow, bright battalions 
The hosts of April come; 

There is a sounding chorus. 
The faint tap of a drum. 

And in the woods' deep bivouac 
A strange delirium. 

Now every shy earth creature 

Advances in the dawn, 
For the black ranks of Winter 

Have suddenly withdrawn; 
A glory marches through the world 

And camps upon my lawn. 

I hear the pipers playing 
Upon their golden flutes; 

Hark to the martial music 
Of all the forest lutes! 
[30] 



THE HOSTS OF APRIL 



A myriad cymbals crash and beat, 
And the glad world salutes. 

Behind the flowery victors, 

Close in their royal train, 
I see another army 

Sweep over hill and plain — 
It is a purple regiment 

With slanting swords of rain. 

O passionate invasion, 

Desired, long-dreamed-of time ! 
Rush through our hearts with rapture. 

Erase Life's dust and grime; 
For now the heavens have bent to earth 

In the year's silver prime. 

There never moved an army 

With such a lordly swing; 
The waiting earth is jubilant 

At such sweet conquering. 
Victoriously come once more 

The valiant hosts of Spring I 



[31] 



TO ONE IN HEAVEN 

After you died, a few stray letters came, 
Bearing your name. 
A friend across the sea 

Wrote with the old light laughter; tenderly 
She wished that you were with her, never knowing 
That now for you the winds of heaven were blow- 
ing; 
That you were faring to a distant bourne, 
Whence your white feet would nevermore return. 

And then there came, 

Like little bundles of flame, 

Bright-coloured ribbons — red, and yellow, and 

blue. 
Samples from some gay shop, dainty as you. 
A bit of lace, a bit of gossamer, 
A rainbow sheaf, like dreams that never were. 
And when I saw them, through my blinding tears, 
I thought of your bright years, 
Your love of all this filmy green and gold — 
And your brief story told. 

I hope the angels give you your desire, 
O little heart of fire — 

[32] 



TO ONE IN HEAVEN 



Give you the fairy garments that you crave 

Even beyond the grave ! 

You would not be quite happy in your new place 

Without your golden lace, 

Without those little, trivial, tender things 

The looms wove out of dim imaginings. 

For you loved feathery textures, airy spinnings. 

Like cobwebs from the world's remote beginnings ; 

Soft stuffs as fleecy as the clouds above. 

That grew more lovely for your lovely love. 

Who knows but now your wings may be of fleece, 
Your robe of some fine fabric made of these : 
Rainbows and star-dust and a lost moonbeam, 
And a white thought from Lady Mary's dream 
Of that first moment when she knew that One 
Would live through her. ... Is this your gar- 
ment, spun 
From rapture at the living loom of heaven? 
O little angel-maid, God's gifts are freely given! 



133] 



WHEN I AM DUST 

When I am dust, the stars and the grey sea 
Shall go on shining and singing — but not for me. 

When I am gone, the gospel of the grass 
Shall still be uttered — but not for me, alas! 

And when my feet on their last journey turn. 
Still In the heavens the sunset fires shall burn; 

Still in the woods the nightingales shall sing 
As once for me on a white day of Spring. 

And folk shall move, and smile, and speak, and 

nod; 
But I shall be away — at home with God. 



[34] 



OF ONE SELF-SLAIN 

When he went blundering back to God, 
His songs half written, his work half done, 

Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod, 
What hills of peace or pain he won? 

I hope God smiled, and took his hand. 
And said, "Poor truant, passionate fool! 

Life's book is hard to understand : 

Why couldst thou not remain at school?" 



[35] 



THE OLD LOVELINESS 

No beauty lasts; no dream stays on; 
Earth wheels from ghostly dawn to dawn. 
And soon, ah! soon, the red moon pales, 
And even golden SIrlus falls. 

O whither, like a phantom goes 
The royal crimson of the rose? 
Behind what rampart of the night 
Retreats the sun's Imperial light? 

We do not know; we only guess: 
Yet loveliness crowds loveliness, 
And every starlit evening seems 
More wonderful than vanished dreams. 



[36] 



IN SUMMER 

The days drift by — as ships drift out to sea : 
Morning, high noon, twilight's tranquillity. 

And then — the peace the honeyed evening brings 
With the large moon and old rememberings. 

Old memories, old raptures, old desires, 
Old joys return, and Youth's immortal fires; 

Old loves that still around the spirit lie 
And whisper of long Summer days gone by. 

O rapture of the world that crowds to-night 
About my soul, and brings back lost delight, 

Bid me farewell when the last stars awake. 

Or else my wounded heart will break, will break! 



[37] 



THE BEST ROAD OF ALL 

I LIKE a road that leads away to prospects white 

and fair, 
A road that is an ordered road, like a nun's eve- 
ning prayer; 
But, best of all, I love a road that leads to God 

knows where. 

You come upon it suddenly — you cannot seek it 

out; 
It's like a secret still unheard and never noised 

about; 
But when you see it, gone at once is every lurking 

doubt. ^ 

It winds beside some rushing stream where aspens 
lightly quiver; 

It follows many a broken field by many a shining 
river; 

It seems to lead you on and on, forever and for- 
ever! 

You tramp along its dusty way, beneath its ' 

shadowy trees. 
And hear beside you chattering birds or happy 

booming bees. 
And all around you golden sounds, the green 

leaves' litanies. 

[38] 



THE BEST ROAD OF ALL 



And here's a hedge, and there's a cot; and then — 

strange, sudden turns; 
A dip, a rise, a little glimpse where the red sunset 

burns; 
A bit of sky at eveningtime, the scent of hidden 

ferns. 

A winding road, a loitering road, a finger-mark of 

God 
Traced when the Maker of the world leaned over 

ways untrod. 
See ! Here He smiled His glowing smile, and lo, 

the goldenrod ! 

I like a road that wanders straight; the King's 

highway is fair. 
And lovely are the sheltered lanes that take you 

here and there; 
But, best of all, I love a road that leads to God 

knows where. 



[39] 



THE SHADOW 

I SAW your shadow on the lawn 
Before the crimson sun had gone — 
A phantom, a dark ghost of you 
That changed and more mysterious grew 
As the light faded from the world 
And daylight into darkness whirled. 

I loved that curious grotesque, 
That strange and shapeless arabesque; 
That dim suggestion of your hair, 
That monstrous drawing of you there; 
That whimsical design which seemed 
Like something that a madman dreamed. 

For it was you — and yet not you ; 

True in intention — yet untrue; 

As if, in sleep, a demon came 

And backward wrote your lovely name. 

It was like music out of key — 

Yet O, how wonderful to me! 



[40] 



A LOVE SONG 

*'We perish like the Summer moth; 

We vanish like the rainbow's hue." 
Thus mumble deep philosophers: 

And yet I go on loving you ! 

"We fade like sunsets; go like rain. 

Man's moment Is a fleeting thing." 
Hark to the sages of the world ! — 

Yet round my throat your arms still cling. 

"Life is a bubble in a glass; 

Love is a madness. Both shall be 
Consumed like snow beneath the sun" . . . 

And yet you go on loving me I 



[41] 



ONE KISS 

Through the dim years we may recall 

Tristan and Iseult's kiss; 
And that first moment — best of all — 

Of Abelard's wild bliss. 

And Helen's holy moment when 
To one her lips she turned; 

Long, long within the breasts of men 
Its golden fire has burned. 

Kisses of love, when love first came — 
They shall outlast the grave. 

But oh, that deathless kiss of shame — 
The kiss that Judas gave ! 



[42] 



OLD HOUSES 

I LOVE old houses, with vines running pver, 
Set in a riot of roses and clover, 
Set in a wonder of old, old trees, 
Dreaming of far, dim memories. 

I love their windows, like old eyes 
That seem to look into paradise. 
If the old, old houses could speak to us 
Out of their glory ruinous! 

If ghosts could pass through dusty halls 
Where Love held holy carnivals. 
And the ancient words could be said once more, 
When a young bride passed through the friendly 
door! 

If the dead could return, return and speak, 
And kiss again one rose-red cheek! 
And yet, 'tis better we do not know 
The sad, m-^d stories of long ago. 

Let the old, old houses their secrets keep; 
Leave them alone in their quiet sleep. 
They are like old folk who nod by the fire, 
Glad with their dreams of youth and desire. 

[43] 



HOW WILL IT SEEM? 

How will it seem when Peace comes back once 
more, 

After these desperate days of shattering pain? 

How will it be with all of us again, 
When hushed forever is the thunder of War? 
There still are primroses by many a shore; 

And still there bloom, in many a lovely lane, 

Hawthorn and lilacs; and the roses' stain 
Is red against full many a garden door. 

O days to be ! O honeyed nights of sleep, 

When the white moon shall mount the quiet sky! 
Shall we be wholly happy when buds creep. 
Remembering those who dared to bleed and 
die? 
Can we be glad again? Nay, we shall weep 
For those who told this sad, glad world good- 
bye. 



[44] 



ON SOME RECENT ALLIED VICTORIES 

Be hijmble, O my country! In this hour. 
Remember there are fiery paths to cross, 
Undreamed-of anguish and unreckoned loss 

To face with courage, ere the perfect flower 

Of Peace shall blossom after hell's red shower. 
Be confident; be brave; yet also be 
Like the great Christ In His humility; 

Be mindful of the purpose of your power. 

It Is not gain you seek. It Is not praise. 

Therefore let pride be burled In the dust. 

Fight on, foregetful of this flaming dower 
Of sudden victory. There shall be days 

Of darkness when your bright steel seems like 
rust. ... 

Be humble, O my country, in this hour! 



[45 J 



ITALIA IN EXCELSIS 
' (1917) 

Now she has risen from her dreams of ease, 
Mighty at last, her soul recharged with fire. 
She leaves her olive-groves, and high and higher 

Climbs toward blue heaven upon her very knees. 

O let her roses perish! What of these 
In this wild hour, if in her heart expire 
The prayer that led her to this white desire 

For peace that shall outlive the centuries? 

Go higher still, brave host! Mount up to God 
Until you storm the ramparts of the sky! 

Our souls are climbing with you. Iron shod 
Shall be your feet; the peaks of dawn defy. 

Then from those crests and crags of blinding snow 

Pour down your thunder on the world below! 



[46] 



TO A STRICKEN WORLD 

Be not disheartened, weary world, since War 

With iron teeth gnaws at the gates of Life. 

This pain shall pass; this horror and this strife 
Shall vanish. All this grief that we deplore 
Shall fade, and the white gods we waited for, 

Out of the mist may come with healing hands. 

There is so much that no one understands: 
The earth in darkness, heaven's bolted door. 

But what of all the sins that never cease? — 

Our sleek content with inequality. 
Our placid ease through years of so-called peace, 

When the pale poor weep everlastingly; 

Our dumb acceptance of red wrongs that be — 
O what of these, blind world — ^yea, what of these? 



[47] 



A PRAYER FOR THE OLD COURAGE 

Still let us go the way of beauty; go 
The way of loveliness ; still let us know 
Those paths that lead where Pan and Daphne run, 
Where roses prosper In the Summer sun. 

The earth may rock with War. Still Is there peace 
In many a place to give the heart release 
From this too-vibrant pain that drives men mad. 
Let us go back to the old love we had. 

Let us go back, to keep alive the gleam. 
To cherish the Immortal, God-like dream; 
Not as poor cravens flying from the fight. 
But as sad children seeking the clean light. 

O doubly precious now Is solitude; 
Thrice dear yon quiet star above the wood, 
Since panic and the sundering shock of War 
Have laid In ruins all we hungered for. 

Brave soldiers of the spirit, guard ye well 
Mountain and fort and massive citadel; 
But keep ye white forever — keep ye whole 
The battlements of dream within the soul! 

[48] 



RUINS 

[For Christian Brinton'\ 

They sat at supper In a shadowy room. 
"But you," she said, ^''you are an artist! You 
Deplore this tearing down of all our dreams! 
You know that War Is shattering the world, 
And Beauty falls In ashes at our feet." 

He looked at her, full-blown and glorious 
With flaming eyes and tossed, abundant hair. 

"How I abhor this hour!" he softly said. 

*'I never thought the world could come to this. 

Yet always through the years, the flame of War, 

Like a long crimson serpent has crept and crept, 

And poisoned all the beauty that we built. 

The Parthenon was stricken by the blast 

Of cruel cannon In disastrous days; 

Yet In the moonlight It Is wonderful 

In a strange way the mind can never name. 

And strong barbarian hordes tore down that 

dream. 
The Coliseum ; and manly Romans wept. 
Yet It Is lovelier on soft Summer nights 
Than ever it must have been in the young years. 

[49] 



RUINS 

And Rheims — it shall be doubly beautiful 
With a new meaning through the centuries, 
Hushed with its memories of this dark hour." 

Her face grew grave. ''You dare to tell me 

this ! — 
You say a ruin is more wonderful 
Than the pure dream the architect once dreamed?" 

"I cannot answer. But one thing I know: 
Men rush across the seas to catch one glimpse 
Of fallen fanes and tottering columns. Yes, 
They fare through desolate places that their eyes 
May rest at last on crumbling marble. . . . See ! 
Those men and women rise — and we must rise 
To pay our tribute to that noble man 
Who has come back, a ruin from the War." 

She turned. There was a soldier at the door; 
And one sleeve of his uniform hung limp, 
And there were many scars upon his cheeks. 

"A ruin!" the artist whispered. "Yet he seems 
The only whole and perfect man I know!" 



[50] 



AFTERWARDS 

The sick man said: "I pray I shall not die 
Before this tumult which now rocks the earth 
Shall cease. I dread far journeyings to God 
Ere I have heard the final shots of War, 
And learned the outcome of this holocaust" 

Yet one night, while the guns still roared and 

flashed. 
His spirit left his body; left the earth 
Which he had loved in sad, disastrous days, 
And sped to heav'n amid the glittering stars 
And the white splendour of the quiet moon. 

One instant — and a hundred years rushed by! 
And he, a new immortal, found his way 
Among the high celestial hills of God. 
Then suddenly one memory of earth 
Flashed like a meteor's flame across his mind. 

One instant — and another hundred years! 
And even the dream of that poor little place 
Which he had known, was lost in greater spheres 
Through which he whirled; and old remembrances 

[SI] 



^ 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



Were but as flecks of dust blown down the night; 
And nothing mattered, save that suns and moons 
Swung in the ether for unnumbered worlds 
High, high above the pebble of the earth. 



[52] 



TO WALTER HAMPDEN AS "HAMLET" 

The Prince of Denmark lives for us once more, 
Since you have opened the immortal door, 
Emerged, and walked within our eager view, 
Young, mad, and weary; yea, but human too. 

You caught hid meanings of the mighty Bard; 
And through those lines with aching beauty 

starred. 
You wove a thread of sound, like winds at dawn — 
Your voice the thread, each word a bead thereon. 

So Shakespeare's magic lives for us again; 
So we are conscious of the breathing Dane, 
And, while we marvel, and the young Prince dies, 
Another glory shines within the skies. 



[53] 



THEODORE ROOSEVELT 



On what divine adventure has he gone? 
Beyond what peaks of dawn 
Is he now faring? On what errand blest 
Has his impulsive heart now turned? No 

rest 
Could be the portion of his tireless soul. 
He seeks some frenzied goal 
Where he can labour on till Time is not, 
And earth is nothing but a thing forgot. 

II 

Pilot and Prophet! as the years increase 

The sorrow of your passing will not cease. 

We love to think of you still moving on 

From sun to blazing sun, 

From planet to far planet, to some height 

Of clean perfection in the Infinite, 

Where with the wise Immortals you can find 

The Peace you fought for with your heart and 

mind. 
Yet from that bourne where you are journeying 
Sometimes we think we hear you whispering, 
"I went away, O world so false and true, 
I went away — with still so much to do I'* 

[54] 



CITY FLASHES 



THE BUS CONDUCTOR ^ 

We*re happy in the omnibus — 

A jolly little crowd of us. 

We're going to dine — we four — up-town. 

It will be late when we come down. 

The seats begin to fill, and though 

It is a night of soft, slow snow, 

Some youngsters clamour up the stair, 

And sit on top to drink the air. 

The bus conductor comes, in time, 
And holds his hand out for our dime. 
He calls the streets, and rings the bell, 
And does his various duties well. 
The Avenue, aflame with stars, 
Is crowded with swift motor-cars; 
And at a corner now and then 
We stop, and rush along again. 

The bus conductor looks at us ; 

His eyes are young and mischievous, 

Yet there's a lurking sadness too 

Within those depths of Irish blue. 

He seems to say, "Your young, wild feet, 

Can dance off here at any street I 

[57] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



Yes, you can leave — and dine and sup; 
While I must ring some new fares up. 

"I'm like an engine on a track; 
I first go down, and then come back. 
I'm part of this old omnibus. 
And Jove ! it gets monotonous !" 

Ah! here's our street! . . . We dined till ten, 
And danced till midnight. Home again. 
Within the cosy bus; and there 
The same conductor took our fare! 



[58] 



THE BLIND 

The blind man fumbled down the street, 
(How far, for him, the street must wind!) 

I heard the click of his wretched stick, 
His thin, "Please help the blind!" 

I hurried past him, till his voice 
Was lost, like gulls' cries far at sea. 

I had two eyes, but saw him not: 
If he was blind, oh, what of me I 



[59] 



TELEPHONES 

Think of the bells that are ringing 

All over the great city! 
Think of the words that are slnglng- 

Words of love, and pity. 

Yet there Is one number only 
That I want more than all. 

Strange that I, who am lonely, 
Dare not enter the call I 



[60] 



THE PEOPLE IN THE PARK 

These are the city's poets, 

These people in the park, 
Who sit and watch slow shadows 

Melt into the dark; 

Who come on Maytlme evenings, 

Or on rich nights of June, 
And see above the treetops 

The bubble of the moon; 

Who listen to the fountain 

That tinkles all day long. 
And let Its echo lodge with them, 

An anthem and a song. 

Young lovers loiter gladly 

In many a leafy place, 
And look with the old wonder 

Into each other's face. 

These are the happy poets 

Whom nothing can dismay. 
Who keep wise dreams within their hearts 

That none can take away. 
[6i] 



SUNDAY EVENING 

I SAW a pale young clerk coming home from the 
country, 
His tired wife beside him,' his child on his knee; 
In his hands a bunch of crushed lilacs and wilting 
dogwood — ' ' 

But in his heart a joy unknown to me. 

The Subway clamoured and clattered; the lurching 
people, 
Weary, after long tramps through a scented 
lane, 
Seemed like phantoms before me and all around 
me, 
Their faces like ghosts in gardens after light 
rain. 

But O, they were real! They were only too 
human ! 
Their eyes held the eager fire of dreams and of 
youth. 
And I, in my loneliness, I to them was a phantom; 
They had been out in still places; they had 
tasted the Truth. 

[62] 



SUNDAY EVENING 



And now they had memories for a week of days 
unendhig; 
Now they' had glamour enough to carry them 
through. 
And only I was alone in that heaving Subway — 
I, an idle dreamer, with nothing at all to do. 



[63] 



ON SEEING A NUN IN A TAXICAB 

Little sister, did you know, 

When I saw you through the glass of the cab, 

That your life held as great contrasts 

As the lives of deposed kings and czars? 

One moment, a lonely cell; 

Then this sudden projection Into flaming Fifth 

Avenue ! 
How strange the streets must have seemed to you, 
Little white sister, sitting there so still! 

I was In a 'bus. 

And at Forty-second street the traffic halted us, 

Side by side, and I could almost have touched you. 

I peered Into your privacy. 

Like the fool that I was. 

And I felt ashamed of myself 

When I saw m your hands a rosary; 

Your lips were moving, 

And I turned away. 

When you reached your destination, 
I still wonder, unworldly little sister, 
If you realised that even .you 
Were expected to tip the chauffeur! 

[64] 



SUNDAY IN AN OFFICE BUILDING 

The corridors are strangely still; 
The offices are bleak and chill. 
The elevators do not run 
On busy errands. Life seems done, 
And no one guards the marble door 
Wherethrough, on Monday, there will pour 
Hundreds — nay, thousands — like a tide; 
Legions that cannot be denied. 

The desks are empty; mice confer 

Like ghouls within a sepulchre. 

This is the temporary grave 

Of volumes over which men slave. 

To-morrow it will be alive 

With rushing feet, a sounding hive. 

Yet for these few brief hours it knows 

The stillness of the dreaming rose. 



[651 



AROUND THE CORNER 

Around the corner I have a friend, 

In this great city that has no end; 

Yet days go by, and weeks rush on. 

And before I know it a year is gone. 

And I never see my old friend's face, 

For Life is a swift and terrible race. 

He knows I like him just as well 

As in the days when I rang his bell 

And he rang mine. We were younger then, 

And now we are busy, tired men: 

Tired with playing a foolish game, 

Tired with trying to make a name. 

"To-morrow," I say, "I will call on Jim, 

Just to show that I'm thinking of him." 

But to-morrow comes — and to-morrow goes, 

And the distance between us grows and grows. 

Around the corner! — yet miles away. . . . 
"Here's a telegram, sir. . . ." 

*^Jim died to-day.** ~ 
And that's what we get, and deserve in the end 
Around the corner, a vanished friend. 



[66] 



THE USHER 

Here In this hall, 

Where I have shown people to their respective 
places 

For many and many a year, 

I have heard Innumerable lectures, 

I have heard hundreds of singers. 

Like a long procession, 

Like an endless lantern-slide 

They have marched and glided before me — 

Poets from England and France, 

Publicists from all over the world. 

Pianists from Poland and Germany and Sweden, 

Baritones, sopranos and contraltos from God 
knows where; 

String quartettes and individual harpists. 

Dancers and elocutionists, 

Each having his little hour of triumph and rap- 
ture. 

Or his terrible moment of failure and dismay. 

I have seen the hall crowded. 

And alas ! I have seen it almost empty — 

Forlorn stretches of cane-bottomed chairs. 

[67] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



Once, when a returned soldier spoke here, 

The people couldn't get in; 

And once, when a girl from North Dakota, 

Frightened almost to death on her first appear- 
ance. 

Fainted on the platform. 

And had to be carried out, 

I suffered with her when she ignominiously broke 
down. 

One thing comforted me : 

There were only forty-two people present. 

Sometimes when It rains 

It is pitiful to see what small crowds turn out. 
And often it is the best attractions which fail. 
Dull missionaries seem to be able to pack the 

house. 
I suppose they give tickets away to their relatives, 
Or to poor Sunday-school children 
And their poorer parents from the East Side. 
I know very well that there is no money taken in 

at the box-office 
On such bleak occasions. 

Students, however, pay to hear great artists, 
And there are foreign poets who reap a harvest 
Because of their clever managers. 
I listen to them all. 
For they strangely interest me. 
What a lot of wasted energy there is in the world! 

[68] 



THE USHER 



What a lot of buncombe and silly vanity! 

Any one with a hundred dollars can hire this hall 

And give a concert or a reading — 

Think of it! 

But I don't mind that, since I earn my living here. 

Oh, this never-ceasing procession of "talent" ! — 

An army of mediocrity 

That ought to be out fighting and really working 

somewhere. 
Only once in an age does a genius come along. 
It is pitiful. 

And it is strange that after three years and a half, 
When so many others have come and gone, 
I find myself thinking about that little singer from 

North Dakota 
Who broke down and fainted. 
I have completely forgotten her name, 
But her face forever haunts me. ... 
I wonder what became of her? 



[691 



THE MESSENGER BOY 

When he goes whistling down the street — 

His eyes are young and young his feet — 

He does not know the words that stand 

Like rows of flame within his hand. 

He casually rings the bell 

Of 42, where all is well, 

And waits there in the vestibule, 

Where it is hushed and clean and cool; 

A careless lad who does not guess 

The words he brings bring emptiness, 

Bring sorrow and engulfing tears, 

And change the smooth march of the years. 

The door is opened. Nevermore 

Will one pass through that friendly door. 

White fingers tear the envelope, 

White fingers through the message grope. 

There Is a cry, a sound of feet. . . . 

A boy goes whistling down the street. 



[70] 



IN A DEPARTMENT STORE 

(The building that formerly housed a certain 
great shop In New York has been turned into a 
hospital for wounded soldiers.) 



Women used to stroll through these aisles, 

Idly looking at laces, 
Studying the new styles. 

And the new graces. . . . 
Now, if they walked these dim defiles, 

They would see only faces: 

II 

Faces of boys who have been 

Through the mud and the mire, 

But who laugh, and chuckle, and grin 
In their bandaged attire; 

Smile, since deep down within. 
Their souls are on fire. 

Ill 

Where the counters stood yesterday, 
Covered with light stuff, 

[71] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



And you thought the shop gay 

With its delicate bright stuff, 
See what a long array 

Of the spiritual right stuff! 

IV 

This was once but a mart; 

Here salesgirl and shoe-man 
Played a diplomat's part 

For each difficult woman; 
Now the place finds its heart — 

It is suddenly human I 

( V 

These lads have come back — 

Oh, the long, aching aisles of them! 

They are laid on pain's rack — 

I think there are miles of them! 

But watch their lips crack 

At your jokes! See the smiles of them! 

VI 

And there's singing here now. 

And the movie's bright flash; 
Life is strange, I avow^; 

Gone are cretonne and crash. 
See that lad's tied-up brow 

In the aisle that heard "Cash!" 

[72] 



IN A DEPARTMENT STORE 



VII 

Here are rest and quiet 

Where they never had been; 
No "bargain day" riot, 

No bustle and din. 
This stuff — you can't buy it! — 

God laid the stock inl 



[73] 



WAR-TIME PORTRAITS 



STEPHEN 

He was a quiet little man, 

The simples-t soul I ever knew; 
He did his best, and no one can 

Find any better thing to do. 
He took me up and down each day — 

In our old house he ran the lift; 
I'd miss him If he went away 

Even for one short hour's shift. 

His face was young for one so old, 

For he was well past thirty-nine; 
Yet lightly the swift years had rolled, 

And never left a single sign. 
And so we named him Peter Pan — 

The boy eternal in him dwelt; 
How well that ancient car he ran! — • 

The job was his for life, we felt. 

He loved to read; and every night 
I would discuss the news with him. 

I gave him books, both grave and bright- 
Dickens, and Riley, and "Lord Jim." 

[77] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



But when that frightful August came, 
And the base Hun revealed his power, 

Stephen gave up the fiction game. 
And read the papers by the hour. 

He used to say, in those first days 

When Europe rocked with awful war. 
His brain, like mine, in a thick haze, 

"I wonder what they're fighting for!" 
I tried to tell him of a land 

Gone mad with love of greed and lust. 
He did not seem to understand. 

And said he thought I was unjust. 

Then came the time when we joined, too, 

The mighty conflict Over There ; 
Yotj heard men say, "What can I do?" 

And, "Lord! I want to do my share!" 
I held a paper in my hand 

That morning when I went down-town. 
Steve looked at it. "I understand 

At last," he said; and took me down. 

He didn't talk much after that; 

The thing was getting him, I knew; 
Sometimes he failed to touch his hat, — 

Not that I'd ever asked him to. 
Oh, no! For Stephen was our friend; 

He'd run that car for twenty years, 

[78] 



STEPHEN 



And knew the house from end to end, — 
Its laughter, and its pain and tears. 

The weeks rolled by. Conscription came; 

They called the fine lads out to die. 
"By Jove!" said Stephen. "It's a shame!" . . 

"Well, what else could we do?" said I. 
"You don't quite understand me, sir. 

I was just thinking. . . ." Nothing more; 
The elevator gave a stir. 

And very soon I reached my floor. 

It was in June that Stephen left; 

I missed our faithful Peter Pan. 
The house seemed curiously bereft 

Without the quiet little man. 
He never had been sick a day. 

And' so we asked about him. Then 
We learned that he had gone away 

To try to join the fighting men! 

It seems that when they called the draft 

Stephen was in the foremost line. 
"How old are you?" the General laughed. 

"Why, sir, I'm — let's see — twenty-nine!" 
"The deuce you are!" the General said. 

"You'll never see twice that again! 
You're growing grey. We want instead 

A million of the younger men." 

[79 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



The younger men! Yes, Peter Pan, 

To whom the years had been so kind, 
Was not a boy now, but a man; 

And we who loved him had been blind. 
For Love is blind indeed. And yet 

I'm glad it is; for who would see 
The grief this war has grimly set 

On faces dear to you and me? 

Rejected I Peter Pan too old 

To join the ranks and fight the fight! 
His hair had lost its brilliant gold, 

His eyes their sparkle, in a night. 
Rejected! Yes, they wanted boys. 

They wanted only youth for this! 
Mars wanted only radiant toys 

To toss in Hell's metropolis! 

Back to our quiet house he came, 

The young-old Stephen. I could see 
The vanished youth, the vanished flame, 

And the new awful tragedy. 
Yet is he not a soldier, lit 

With fire? Is not his cage a trench 
Wherein his spirit does its bit 

For us, for England, and the French? 



[80] 



THE YOUNG AMBULANCE-DRIVER 



Long, long before America entered the War, 

My young frend went to France 

To do his bit for Democracy. 

He drove an ambulance through blood and mud, 

Through rain and sleet, through darkness and 

through starlight; 
And then he came back home to gather funds 
For many a needed motor-car Out There. 

I heard him tell the story of his work 

With no pride in his voice, but only tears — 

The suppressed tears of a man who has seen 

suffering. 
And knows at last Life's deeper currents; 
A man who has encountered Reality, 
And almost dreads to tell of it. 

I shall never forget his words; 
V I shall never forget the hidden sob in his voice — 
There are some things the years cannot blot out 

[8i] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



II 

A few nights later I met him at the house of an 

acquaintance. 
A sparkling dinner it was, with red wine flowing, 
And trivial laughter and more trivial talk. 
Light women fawned on my friend, 
For they heard he had been to France 
And had been made a Major. 
They asked him silly questions of the conflict; 
Then, scarcely waiting for his patient answers. 
They turned away, or hurried into the next room 
To play bridge or poker with steel magnates and 

professional diners-out. 

Ill 

I watched the young Major's face, 
When, to oblige his hostess. 
He was good enough to make a fourth at a cer- 
tain bridge table. 
How less than nothing the cards seemed to him I 
How less than nothing this unfeeling group of 

people! 
I knew by his eyes — his tragic eyes — 
That he was thinking of wounded men in Flanders, 
And cries of pain in the night in rain-drenched 

Ypres; 
Or perhaps of that poor, brave fellow he had 
told us about — 

[82] 



THE YOUNG AMBULANCE-DRIVER 

The one who had lost his arms, but smiled and 

said, 
*'I offered my life to France, but she took only 

my arms!" 

Finally he got up and went quietly away. 

A young girl muttered, "What a curious fellow 

that young Major is ! 
And he played that rubber so badly!" 

\ 
IV 

The next morning I heard that he was going 

back — 
Going back from hollow joy to actual sorrow. 

I wonder if I can go with him? 



[83] 



JACK LE MAR 

^'There's a job to do — and weVe got to do it I" 
That's what he said. And he went right to it. 

He followed the dirty work clean through. 
"What else," he said, ''can a fellow do?" 

It isn't a lark to go to a camp 

Where the food is poor and the cots are damp; 

To drill in the sun through the Summer days 
Till your legs are sore and your brain's in a haze. 

"War isn't the fun that you hear it is; 
It's as hard as nails when the bullets whiz. 

"It's filthy and cold in a narrow trench; 

But you've got to help the English and French. 

"YouVe got to get down to the facts as they are; 
There's a mess in the world," says Jack Le Mar. 

"Let's clean it up, and then come back 
To the good, smooth days on a level track. 

"But now — there's a job, and we've got to do it I" 
That's what he said. And he went right to it. 

[84] 



JIM SMITH 

Jim Smith was never troubled by the war. 
He rather smiled at it, and simply said, 
"Well, some day everybody will be dead. 

And so why worry? What they scrappin' for? 

"It doesn't matter much who wins this row; 

They're all insane. . . . Tht Liisitaniaf Gee! 

If / was warned, I'd never go to sea. 
Belgium? Oh, what's the difference anyhow!" 

And so he rambled on. A neutral? Yes; 
Part pacifist, and part Pro-German too — 
Though to admit the latter would not do; 

He realised that much, at least, I guess. 

No issues bothered him! He smoked and drank, 
Went to the races, never gave a cent 
For Red Cross work — but took his nourish- 
ment; 

What matter if another steamer sank? 



UT» 



I'm sick of readin' of this rotten War! 
What's at the Strand this week? Come on, 

let's go. 
A war film? Say, that ain't my kind of show. 
Nothin' but guns! ... No wonder I get sore. 

[85] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



"Well, let's go down to Luchow's. Fm all In. . . . 

No Pilsener? What the devil do you mean? 

No Miinchener? Listen! Can you beat that. 
Gene? 
I told you this war'd hit us ! . . . Make it gin!" 



[86] 



YOUNG RUPERT 

His hair was golden as a girl's; his cheeks were 

pink and white; 
His hands were delicate and soft; he hated men 

who fight. 
He never argued, never raised his gentle voice a 

bit; 
If anything, he was too fine; he was too exquisite. 
But when they needed youngsters, those early 

days in France, 
Young Rupert packed his grip and went to 
drive an ambulance. 

He had a soft, bland way with him; he passed 

the drinks and smokes; 
He hated ribald stories, he detested filthy jokes. 
He loved the lovely things of life ; he played— ah ! 

what a touch! 
Some said he was effeminate ; men didn't like him 

much. 
But when the Allies needed help, young Rupert 

seized his chance; 
He didn't balk; he didn't talk; he simply sailed 

for France. 

[87] 



A WORLD OF WINDOWS 



His light companions loitered here — the chaps 
who laughed at him 

Because he was too "precious"; and because his 
waist was slim. 

They're guzzling beer in dim cafes, they're smok- 
ing strong cigars, 

They're telling us what they would do with kaisers, 
kings, and czars. 
But Rupert's on the firing-line; he's helping all 

he can. 
Effeminate f Not on your life! He's every 
inch a man! 



[88] 



A CERTAIN ENGLISH ACTOR 

His face was like a cameo; his hair 

Was golden as the sun. He went away 
To fight for England on a winter's day; 

We said good-bye upon our lodging stair. 

He'd read the bulletins in Herald Square, 

Till they got on his nerves. His face grew grey. 
"The bulldog needs me!" he would grimly say. 

And ten days later he was Over There. 

I never heard from him. There came no news 
Through all that fighting host — until last 

week. . . . 
He has a crippled arm, a shattered cheek — 
How quickly he responded to his cues 1 

Can he come back to trifling dramas now, 
When Death has almost kissed him on the 
brow? 



[89] 



WILLIE LAMB 

He danced through life, through many a cabaret; 

At Babylonian feasts he graced the floor, 

While the loud orchestra its tones would pour 
Like crimson wine, until the break of day. 
His face was young, and weak. We used to say, 

*'Here is one made for laughter — nothing 
more. 

A lad whose pagan beauty we deplore — 
An Ariel, or perhaps a Dorian Gray." 

Yet high above the music of the dance. 

Young Lamb had heard the bugles Over There, 
And while we sat and dreamed, in a strange 
trance, 
He left the shallow Broadway glitter and 
glare. 
And gave his boyish heart to stricken France. 
Ah I call him light and foolish — if you dare I 



[90] 



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